


thou art my love and i am thine (Valentine's 2016 Tumblr Prompts)

by shiniestqueen (sparrowinsky)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkward People, F/M, First Meetings, Prompt Fill, Road Trip, Time Travel, Tumblr Prompt, Valentine's Day, dive bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:26:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6054916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrowinsky/pseuds/shiniestqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A trio of fills for Valentine's prompts on Tumblr.</p><p>1. MCU, Rollins/Skye, First meeting<br/>2. MCU, Steve/Bucky/Skye, My date stood me up but you're way hotter.<br/>3. Fallout 4, F!SS/Glory, Surprise date (you thought I forgot but you were wrong! Surprise!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. doesn't back down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ozhawk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozhawk/gifts), [Orlha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orlha/gifts), [ChocoChipBiscuit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt from Ozhawk: "You asked for it. Rollins/Daisy, first meeting :)"](http://shiniestqueen.tumblr.com/post/139570440533/you-asked-for-it-rollinsdaisy-first-meeting)
> 
>  
> 
> This is set pre-Quake, because I’m terribly behind in my Aos-viewing. Rollins was a triple agent for SHIELD and had to go under the radar after Triskelion. Skye takes off for some Me Time and, well...

 

Maybe, just maybe, taking off on a solo cross-country trip hadn't been the best plan.

Half a week of wandering around semi-aimlessly on a motorcycle (mysteriously procured by May, who'd just somehow _known_ ) was not worth the heart-stopping _poppoppop,_ and by the time she’d wobble-skidded to a stop on the side of the empty road, the shine was wearing off the plan entirely.

“Um.” Steam- or possibly smoke- drifted ominously from not one but _three_ locations on the bike. Skye backed away with her hands raised pleadingly. “No exploding. Please?”

The bike responded with another faint _poppophiss_ and a wheeze that wouldn't have been out of place on a centenarian.

She backed away a little more, just in case. She knew without looking that the horizon was the same unforgiving flat horizon in all directions, and the last town she’d seen several hours behind.

“Ok.” She took a deep breath. “This is ok. I'm a trained agent. I kick ass. This is not a problem. I'm going to pull out my phone and,” she flicked her eyes to the gray clouds beseechingly, “it will have full service and I will not get rained on.”

An hour later she was still trudging east  through an unchanging landscape of knee-high crops and checking her phone every five minutes, rapidly growing to loathe the words _no service_.

“Seriously,” she muttered to herself, “l know this is the middle of nowhere, but how is there _no_ reception? What do they use, carrier pigeons?” She didn't say _how much worse could it get_ but the thought flashed through her mind before she could stop it. The first freezing drop of rain hit her nose a moment later.

The cold rain soaked right through her clothes in minutes. By the time the pickup passed her and pulled to the side of the road she was numb with it, forcing herself forward through sheer determination and nothing else. She didn’t even register the truck until it stopped, the driver barreling out only to stop dead in front of her.

“Shit,” he said, with feeling. Skye was tempted to smile, but she didn’t have that much energy to spend. She blinked at him instead, letting her head fall back to look up at his face. Her rescuer was _huge_. He stared back down. “...fuck it. Christ, you’re a fucking ice cube. Come on, get in.”

He had to lift her in, all her limbs clumsy with the cold. The cab was like heaven, the heat blasting, the bench seat blessedly _dry_.

The knight-in-shining-pickup pulled onto the road and ignored her for a solid ten minutes while Skye put her hands directly in front of the vents and let her eyes drift shut. _I don’t care if he’s a serial killer_ , she decided, around the time that she could feel her toes again. _You’re my favorite person now, Giant Truck Man_.

Thankfully, the cold had leached out of her brain enough that she didn’t _say_ it. Instead she mustered up a grateful smile and wiggled her fingers at him. “Hi.”

His lips twitched. “Hi yourself, Elsa.”

Skye laughed, startled. This was not a guy who looked like he’d watch kid’s movies. “...Ana, I think. I’m the freeze-e in this situation. ...Olaf.”

“Oh, bullshit, like I’m the fucking snowman in this story. You’re the one who took a walk through a hurricane, sweetheart.”

“Well, I guess you should tell me your name, then, huh?” He gave her the same look as when they’d stood in the rain, caught between nervous and thoughtful. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she offered, choking back a laugh when his cheeks colored.

“Jack,” he muttered.

“Skye,” she responded, and turned her attention back to the road. “Thanks for the rescue, Jack.”

“Sure.” The questions were practically radiating off of him, but he didn’t actually _ask_ , and Skye found herself liking him all the more for it. She leaned down to unzip her boots, noting the way he tracked her movements. _Military_ , she decided. He had that set to his shoulders, a certain composure she was learning to recognize. He said nothing as she toed off her shoes and stretched her legs out.

“Where are we headed, Jack?”

He shrugged. “You tell me, princess.”

 _I should call in. Let May know where I am_. Skye tapped her fingers on her thigh, glancing out the window. There was hardly anything to see, past the pouring rain. “I’ve got nowhere to be. Surprise me?”

He laughed, low and warm, and Skye couldn’t help but grin in response.


	2. singer in a smoky room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Orlha: [ I'll ask everyone who's doing this... BUCKY/STEVE/SKYE! Any number! :D RAWR!]()
> 
> I hit up a random generator and got #20, “20. This is the wrong restaurant I just realised but holy shit this guy/girl is so much hotter than my actual date…”
> 
> This time we’re rockin’ it AU style, in the key of “time travel fic.” Poor Skye went tumbling back in time and while she’s managed to scrape a living together for a few weeks, it’s rough being a modern-day girl on your own in the ‘40s...

 

 

“I’m tellin’ you, Buck, this isn’t the right place.” Steve’d been saying so for near an hour, but Bucky wouldn’t hear it, confident in his directions. Now he looked around at the neighborhood they’d wandered into and had to concede that maybe Steve was right.

“We followed the directions, Steve. It’s supposed to be--” 

“Bucky, no woman’s going to wait for her date in the kind of dive we’ll find around here.” Steve gestured wide, taking in the dark alleys and dissipated buildings. “Face it, those directions were just a brush-off. Told you they didn’t want a double-date.” The smile that crept onto his face was rueful at best. 

That smile found no match on Bucky’s face. “To hell with ‘em, then. We come as a set and I made that clear, and any dames who don’t like it can get lost.” He slung an arm around Steve, just hard enough to make him stumble and laugh. 

“Don’t, Buck.” Steve was grinning, but his tone was all warning. It could have been  _ don’t push me around _ , but it wasn’t. Bucky knew that like he knew his way ‘round Brooklyn. That warning was  _ don’t talk about it _ , because gave a damn about what people thought.

_ So do you _ , Bucky had to admit to himself.  _ At least as far as not getting thrown in the joint goes _ . He opened his mouth to suggest they make their way home and stay in for the holiday, but the words drifted off at the expression on Steve’s face. “Doesn’t mean  _ we _ can’t have a drink, though, right?” He jostled Steve again for emphasis, grinning at the rolled eyes he got in return.

“Sure, as long as we can make it back home.”

“So, as long as I don’t let you get into a bar brawl, is what I’m hearin’.”

They found a bar within minutes, exactly the kind of dive Steve predicted. The steps leading down were filthy and the sign was illuminated by a single dim bulb, so that only the words  _ Hart Club _ were visible beneath the faint impression of a vaguely deer-like shape. Booze was booze, though, and the high, sweet voice of a singer drifted out the open doors to draw them in. The pace was packed-- strange, considering the holiday-- bodies filling the narrow two-story building with warmth.  _ No wonder the doors are open _ . Bucky  wasn’t squeamish, but even his nose wrinkled a little at the mix of sweat and sour beer. He gave Steve a push towards the stage and turned to work his way to the bar. The drinks were cheap, thank god, and not as bad as they smell. 

He found Steve at a narrow table near the stage, staring up at the singer with an expression usually reserved for prayer. Bucky couldn’t blame him. There was a sweetly melancholy expression in her dark eyes, a shine to her long hair, a grace in her soft smile. She was downright ethereal, until his gaze dropped to the sinfully tight dress she wore and he choked on his beer. 

The noise caught her attention. The angel turned, the smile twitching a with muffled annoyance that fled in the wake of surprise as she looked at the pair of them.  _ What a picture we must make _ . Steve was still staring, rapt, and Bucky knew he’d gone red as much from embarrassment as lack of breath. She didn’t seem disgusted or dismissive or anything else, though, besides surprised, and then amused, throwing Steve a wink and Bucky a smirk. 

The angel finished her song and started another, something sappy that had the crowd of hard men and jaded women improbably enthralled. She stepped down from the stage after that one, making way for a trio brandishing two saxophones and a violin. A few particularly drunk men reached for her as she passed, but the singer skirted them easily, making directly for Steve and Bucky’s table. She sat down without a word, taking Bucky’s mug from his loose fingers, drinking deep before she handed it back.

“So,” she murmured with a soft, confiding grin, “you boys want to be my Valentine’s?” 


	3. awkward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt from ChocoChipBiscuit: "SURPRISE DATE IN THE FALLOUT!"](http://shiniestqueen.tumblr.com/post/139760688013/surprise-date-in-the-fallout)
> 
>  
> 
> I like to think Glory is terribly awkward and awful with people.

The new kid tumbles back into HQ on the regular, a smirking Deacon on her heels. The reports are victory after victory, Deacon spinning every success into a fairy-tale and Whisper grinning and nodding and laughing along. Even Dez smiles now and again, and if it’s more for the way the duo is shoving raiders and muties and ghouls out of every corner the Railroad could use, well, it’s still a smile.

 Glory listens, can’t help but listen. Even when she’s asleep. She finds herself pulled awake to the sound of soft laughter and D’s irritating raspy soliloquy,  She doesn’t mind. It’s good to know what they’re doing, because Desdemona doesn’t always share, and Carrington acts like she’s an idiot because she’d rather barrell through something than stop for a chat. They’ve _got_ talkers; they’ve got talkers and inventors and planners and even before Whisper, they had sneaky bastards. But Glory was the only muscle for a damn long time, and the good doctor can shut his face if he doesn’t like the way she works.

 “Hiya, G.” Whisper’s there, crouched by her bedroll with a shit-eating grin, and Glory blinks slowly in response. People like this drive her crazy, always have, sly and sneaky and too damn clever, and Whisper could sneak past a Deathclaw without a StealthBoy. Glory can’t stand her. Not the light tread or the bright smile or the way she’s sweet to everybody or- she’s talking. Right.

 “...so we could use a hand.” Flashes a little grin, eyebrow cocked. “If you’re not too busy around here.”

 “Yeah,” Glory says, wondering what she’s just agreed to.

* * *

Shit work, it turns out. Boring-ass housecleaning near Quincy, a handful of raiders who’ve taken up residence above a subway station. At least _we_ was a lie, it’s just Whisper at her side, thank fuck, because Glory doesn’t exactly _mind_ Deacon but she always wants to punch him when they work together. Sometimes she goes ahead and does (and he just laughs, and she wants to punch him _even more_ ).

It’s pretty fun as kiddie-level ops go, their strengths playing well together, Whisper scouting and then hunkering down in a high spot. Glory considers herself one-up in the ass-saving department when a small pack of ferals sweep past them and into the encampment, stabbing the one that turns towards them and yanking Whisper into an alcove while the laughter and jokes from within turns to angry shouts and screams.

They’re both too professional to laugh on an op, but Glory sees her own swallowed giggles reflected in Whisper’s dark eyes.

They pick off the survivors, three raiders and one ghoul in a rotted suit. Stroll around the place, Whisper picking up a ridiculous assortment of shit. The paper money, Glory gets, she knows that sells for a decent rate to the caravan merchants, but who the fuck needs two-century-old alarm clocks?

Glory’s more practical. Ammo. A nice laser pistol. Boots, because hers are old and the big raider with Psycho tracks is near enough her size. Takes takes her time about all of it, thorough, meticulous, calm after combat like always. Doesn’t notice Whisper until there’s a quiet cough, right behind her, and _fuck_ but she hates the sneaky ones. Blinks, when she turns around.

A table that had been covered in empty beer bottles and Jet when they walked is sitting in the center of the room, covered in- of all things- an almost-white swatch of lace. A candle in the middle, two plates, equal portions of jerky and sweetroll on each. Blinks again and stares at Whisper, who grins back, unabashed.

“You forgot already?” Her patient voice at odds with the manic look in her eyes.

“I,” Glory says. “What?”

“...it’s… it’s Valentine’s Day. I’ve been talking about it the whole way out here? How I- …you didn’t listen, did you. At all.”

Glory swallows back a lie, glancing around for exits. Doesn’t really want to admit that no, she figured out way back what a chatterbox Whisper is and ignored anything that wasn’t about tactics or food for two days.

Although.

Now that she thinks about it.

Something about… a husband. An offhand comment about being “a romantic, it’s ridiculous, I know.” Hunched over a bowl of soup, somewhere between rueful and genuinely sad, “never been alone on Valentine’s before.”

Thinks a little harder, and is suddenly pretty sure she’d been asked to have dinner today, and had grunted a vague acknowledgement before falling asleep. Pretty sure Whisper’s been flashing sweet smiles and sweeter compliments the whole way down from HQ.

Whisper’s eyes are wide, dark, a little damp, and Glory is a goddamned _ass_ , she won’t deny it.

“No, hey, no. Just distracted.” She makes a vague gesture at the carnage around them, offers a weak grin in return, but it’s enough for Whisper, whose face lights up like a nuke blast. She grabs Glory’s hand and all but drags her to the table, starting in with the story of the improbable tablecloth. Glory rolls her eyes. Can’t _stand_ chatterboxes. Tries to listen anyway, watching the animation in Whisper’s face, the expansive gestures with her right hand. The left is still holding onto Glory, and… maybe Glory doesn’t mind it so much after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi, I'm [shiniestqueen](shiniestqueen.tumblr.com) on Tumblr! :)


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